Courting Disaster
by Louise24601
Summary: Emma's relationship with Killian has known its share of hardships. When she realizes she's pregnant with his child, nothing should lead her to expect that Killian will be up to the task. But sometimes people surprise you. Hook/Emma. AU. One shot.


**AN**: I had no idea I was going to write something this long when I started. I realize that it's the trend these days to write short chapters that are maybe five minutes to read, but I'd really like you to bear with me with this one story because I've had such a hell of a time writing it, and I'm dying to know your thoughts. Here goes.

Warnings: mention of alcohol addiction, toxic relationship (though it gets better I swear), use of the F-word. Implicit references to sexual situations.

1

Though Killian's demonstrated in the past he could be gentle – gentle a lover, at least, when Emma wanted him to be – she'd be lying if she said she's never had doubts about his being a perfect dad.

They've had their ups and downs over the years, and most of the downs came down to Killian's unreliability, when he swore to no more lapses in his notorious bad habits.

More than once, the clichéd feel of it made Emma want to scream.

_Typical. So typical._

They met when Emma was a senior in high school. A party organized by high school prom queen Regina Mills, who whispered conspirationally in Emma's ear – "See the guy standing in the corner over there?" Emma understood her to be referring to a tall, blue-eyed adolescent, who in the dim lighting looked older than seventeen – actually, Emma's first impression of Killian was just a dark figure, quietly drinking and minding his business, oddly reminding her of the shadow-man Peter Pan tries to sew back to his feet.

"That's Allan Jones's boy."

Allan Jones, the town's notorious blackguard, was known to: drink and drive, browbeat police officials who tried giving him friendly warnings, and own an AK-47 rifle he claimed was a collection item, not to mention a Cujo-like mastiff he kept chained in his backyard, and who neighbors complained was left barking at ungodly hours.

"The Jones's boy," Emma repeated, having heard stories about the son as well as the father. "Killian?"

"Uh-huh."

Until then, it had never struck Emma she'd never seen Killian in high school or in any of the local hang outs that respectable Storybrooke kids frequently visited. When she pointed it out, Regina's lips broke into a chiming laughter – Emma had heard classmates, boys and girls alike, pining over that seductive laughter, whose charm it was commonly agreed was not in the least part the result of its inimitable wickedness. "You're not likely to see him in class anytime soon, Emma dear. High school drop-out. With that sort of background – what did you expect?"

Somehow, that question would burst back into Emma's brain, years and years after that party had ended (inexplicably enough) with her allowing Killian Jones to French kiss her in Regina Mills's downstairs bathroom.

_What did you expect?_

When Killian would stagger past her doorstep, reeking of whisky, eyes shiny with booze-induced confidence and want for her, and Emma had to push him back physically and watch as he pathetically crumbled to the ground, making not the slightest effort to fight her or get back on his feet – like her living room carpet was the ideal place to spend the night.

_What did you expect?_

What _can _you expect of Killian Jones the Bully, Killian Jones the White-Trash Town's Favorite when it comes to accusing someone of troublemaking? Killian could take the blame for anything ranging from a gust of wind knocking over Mrs. McCluskey's garbage can, spilling trash all over her front yard, to a kid's lunch money being stolen, or the neighbor's cat being reported missing. Any incident of bad luck or actual foul play would just become a heap of blame easily piling at Killian's door.

Yet again, though Emma hated to go along with prejudiced and unfounded accusations, she sometimes got irritated enough with Killian that she wanted to blame him for that, too. Did he _have _to smirk smugly at the people who came complaining? "Oh Em," he'd answer, "you'd grin too if those idiots stopped by your house to blame you for every bloody little thing that's wrong with this neighborhood – trust me, love, you wouldn't know _what _to do but grin." Maybe so. But he didn't deny the rumors, she thought – didn't actually try to look all that innocent, to cut the cord with the haunting image of his deadbeat genitor, who was still much remembered around town by the locals, despite having accidentally drowned in a pond less than four feet deep when Killian was nearing twenty.

The love affair that started at Regina's party was by no means supposed to last.

Nor was it expected to.

People around town weren't used to worrying about Emma, as smart pretty girls are generally only worried about when they get in their heads that it's a good idea to move to a big city. But in Storybrooke, what trouble could young Emma Swan possibly get into?

Before Killian, Emma hadn't even really been into boys, though she'd allowed the schoolmaster's son Neal to take her out on a couple of dates. Though she hadn't really liked Neal, she hadn't _known _she didn't like him, because how were you supposed to know what liking someone felt like, that it wasn't enough just to have a harmless and not unpleasant time over a piece of cherry pie at Granny's diner, or being kissed chastely on the lips after duly allowing yourself to be walked home?

It took just one moment for Emma's life to rock all the way down to its foundations – just the flash of a smirk from Killian and a charm tragically rooted in arrogance, "What you staring at me for, love?" Emma hadn't been staring, although she had stolen a couple of glances towards the corner where Killian had been standing before he made his way to her. "Not that I mind," he added. "I'm one who fights for the right of harmless pleasures – like enjoying beautiful sights."

His eyes had been much earnest on her when he said that.

Emma was smiling. "Killian, right?"

"My reputation precedes me."

Though by all means this sounded like _something _he'd done before – or at least a version of it – seducing a guileless girl while taking the part of the dark and handsome initiator, and Emma had surely read enough stories to recognize the pattern that was taking place here, she couldn't convince herself that something _more _wasn't also happening.

Maybe it was the odd shine in his blue eyes, those eyes that were older than his years, and that didn't quite agree with the casual confidence radiating from him.

_Other girls have been in my shoes_, Emma thought, _and he's stood in this exact position before, probably even used the same words_.

And yet –

Yet the heat blazing in the pit of her stomach, the pounding of her heart against her chest.

"You tell me your name, now," he said – it was part of his game to demand that, not to ask. "You know mine. It wouldn't be fair for us to start at a disadvantage."

"Emma."

Not like a piece of information she thoughtlessly gave away, but goaded on by an inexplicable force, hungry and impatient for – _what?_ – something she couldn't yet think of.

"Emma."

Killian somehow repeated the word with the very fire in her voice she had no means to account for. That was all it took, probably – and it was when Emma knew her attraction for Killian Jones was as impossible for her to conquer as it was to explain.

The pointlessness of fighting fell on her like an icy wave, this coldness that oddly _burns_, and later that evening when he was clasping her mouth to his, bringing to life undreamt of desires, she had not even the slightest ambition that they could be put back to sleep.

All the while, she was aware of the risks and possible sufferings ahead.

_If this is it, if I never hear from him again, oh God_ –

The taste of him, sudden, so quickly familiar – how long did they remain kissing, was it hours, was it a full night? – she knew her soul would rebel at its being taken away, and surely Killian wasn't one to go through the bother of wooing her and taking her on perfunctory dates, wouldn't feel obligated to see her again after tonight.

Whether she knew in her bones that part of Killian Jones wanted her back, in the absurd and sudden way she wanted him, or whether she was overwhelmed by the pointlessness of showing resistance – Emma couldn't say.

But it was significant that in the long and stormy years they'd be together, she could never quite shake it off, that sense of resignation –

What would be the point in fighting?

When he showed up, unexpected, in the middle of the night, and she refused to let him in. Through the opaque glass door, the shape of him pleading and pounding was little more than a shadow –

The shadow-boy standing at ease in the darkness.

It might not have been such a wrong first impression.

"Em, come on," he'd cajole, his words would always start soft. Sorry that he'd been away. Sorry he hadn't called. "But love, I'm here now, and all I want is to make this up to you –"

The slur in his voice, turning his whole plea into indistinct mush, and Emma knew exactly what that mush would taste like, sour and overly sweet –

"Emma, _please_!"

When those first notes of anger kicked in, Emma's stomach would tighten at the base, tears acrid, unshed in the back of her throat, as she stayed cold and unmoved, hands crossed on her chest. Not as cold as she'd wish.

_How can I still let this happen?_

Her broken-record love affair.

Killian would howl pointless sorrow at her and, as she had in the last few years, now, she'd deny him pity.

Which was when the real accusation would come, the _gist_ of his anger for her –

You might find it absurd that he should be angry, too, but to Emma's mind, it made sense, as much as anything about her relationship with Killian ever had.

"You _knew_ me, Emma! Before I spoke a word to you, before I ever got it in my head to touch you. You _knew_ who I was!"

And those words rang very much like a question, asked a great deal of years ago –

_What did you expect?_

"I don't know," Emma would actually say to herself, sometimes, voice hoarse with pain she refused to express in trite-looking sobs – over the years, she'd gotten tougher than that. "I don't know."

But she _knew_ in a sick, inexpressible way, it made much sense for Killian to hate her, hate her because she was a glimpse of a life he could never have, a bright flash of expectations he could never live up to.

_You could_, she thought to herself. However much he pounded drunkenly on her door, he was the one shutting her out. _If you even tried_. _If you gave us a real chance._

All things considered, when she looked back on the last decade or so that'd been marked by their on and off romance, how could she not have had any doubts about this?

Honest to God, when the two lines on that pharmaceutical-white stick turned blue, the fear Emma experienced was beyond, was even _alien_ to the worst anxieties she'd ever known. True fear, Emma learned, was cut out of a black-as-night material that sucked in your soul with its tiny mouth.

_This can't be right_, was Emma's first thought, pointless denial. _We can't have a baby_.

Then, almost in complete reversal, the truth kicked in.

_Fuck wrong _or_ right. We're having a baby._

When Emma called Killian and got his voicemail, there must have been something in her voice, a bit of that inimitable terror that let him know how serious this was, because though she spoke all of four words – _Please, call me back_ – and it was Killian's habit to leave her hanging for days, he was at her door not an hour later.

They had the talk in her kitchen.

The air and space about them felt surreal, as if the very walls – a brownish-yellow Emma had never gotten around to paint over – might crumble, like sand, as if the colors of every object in the room might melt off and fill the floor with rainbow shades.

Emma had made coffee and as Killian sat at her table, with the mug untouched and cooling off between his hands, she realized that in the ten years they'd known each other, she'd scarcely had him in her kitchen at all.

_Kitchens aren't for rogue lovers. They're for those who stay around for breakfast and read the news with you, exchange banal words over what's going on in the world then help you do the dishes before you drive off to work._

"I'm not keeping it," Emma heard her voice break the silence.

Killian's eyes shot at her as if the words had pulled the trigger on some hidden mechanism deep inside him.

"Of course," she said, realized it was the only thing to say. "We can't raise a child together. And I can't raise one alone."

"Alone," he repeated bemusedly.

Emma considered giving him a slap to see if he was in shock or something.

"Right," she said.

"No."

Emma's eyes turned cautious. The sudden soft if adamant sureness in his voice was more suspicious to her than the anger she might have expected – but really, she had had no idea _what_ to expect at all, from the self-acknowledged bad boy who'd seduced her as a teenager and had over the years never truly seemed to grow up.

"No," he said again, still soft but serious – maybe more serious than she'd ever seen him. "I mean – just hear me out."

That threw Emma off all right. Like he had a credible case for them becoming successful parents.

"_What_?"

"We don't have to be a disaster." Simple words, lucidity came without effort, without showiness also. No scary excitement or epiphany-struck exaltation. "We don't, Emma."

"But we have been," was all she could think of to answer. "We _are_."

"Not always."

Maybe he wasn't wrong.

Right now – whenever the black stars of misfortune loomed over them – it felt hard to imagine there were ever slivers of hope for them. Those there had been had disappeared under that nightly blackness that took over with its stifling coat of doom. The fragments of happiness they had known in those ten rocky years of passion were like tiny slices of pie before they got drowned in caramel sauce – the overwhelming sweetness taking over the more down-to-earth goodness, the too-quick easy pleasure flying to your brain, your taste buds cheated by the slightly sickening sugary syrup. Whatever _real_ may have been hiding under there was just a cream-covered lump.

"Don't schedule with the doctor," Killian pleaded – though it wasn't the drunken begging she was used to, it was no demand, and the utter absence of force in his voice startled her. When Killian asked for something that was in her power, he wasn't usually so gracious –

That's what made her listen, probably, what really puzzled her.

He already sounded _different_.

"What then?" The words were numb, shock sticky as a layer of sand on her features.

"Try me," he answered. Like it was easy. "I'll show you."

"Show me –"

"That I can do this. I can be better."

"Are you drunk?"

"I think you'd know."

"Killian –"

Emma interrupted herself when she realized there was no point in asking for an explanation.

The newborn earnestness in his eyes – they still looked _older_, not old, but older – the odd lucid calm he was bathing in, could by no means be accounted for.

"Killian, you have issues."

"I know."

"Drinking issues –"

"And so you think the man that's talking to you right now will disappear at the first drop of whisky."

Spoken with no resent.

Of course, she did. The very thought of his inebriated ways got her throat jammed with a reflexive rising of tears and bile.

"But I won't have a drop," he said.

Again, _easy_.

So easy she should have laughed at his confidence but something in the dead-seriousness about him stopped her.

"Try me, Emma," he asked, in that new way of asking that startled her so.

It felt to Emma like she answered without fully realizing what the trial implied –

_He won't last a week_, _anyway_, cynicism chimed in her head – the voice of cynicism was Emma's only a hundred years wearier. It would still be time to get an abortion when he lapsed.

So she said, "Okay."

Nothing solemn. No grave attempts to gauge the level of sincerity in his eyes, to see if he was playing a joke on her.

Just _Okay_.

When she looks back on it, now, she thinks it's a little like she'd been standing at the gates of heaven to meet Jesus Christ and just said, _Hi_.

2

Emma never knew what did it. If it was a deep, sudden epiphany that slapped him across the face, a premeditated disgust at the thought of filling the shoes of his deadbeat father, or a love strong enough already that it undid every messed-up mechanism Emma had only managed to slice her fingers on over the years. Once, she had been both awed and irritated at the razor-sharpness surrounding the core of his sheltered emotions.

How _typical_, still.

Clichés weren't really Emma's thing.

And though she wouldn't deny there had been a bit of that about meeting Killian – an allure of Romance, of stories told and read and yearned for as a girl then looked on with contempt – that wasn't what had drawn Emma at all.

The bad-boy-meets-good-girl story was, in any case, too stale a way of summing up their relationship.

The obviousness of every twist and turn – _what did you expect, Emma, what did you expect? _– the familiar feel of their situation, that often made it so Emma had the impression she was looking in on a theater scene: passion, domestic drama, the most sensational and brazenly unoriginal scenarios that intellectuals sneer at when people insist on calling them art.

Emma had loved Killian _despite_ and not because of this.

Had loved him even if it meant hating herself, for being the woman who'd open that door – not always, but sometimes, when she was tired enough that inflexibility seemed to lose its meaning – the few moments when she caved in, when she let him in…

Taking him back when he was sober and soft and sorry was one thing, but those desperate bursts of pathetic drama outside her door – really.

Those moments were what Emma was surest would last forever.

Like the irony of cockroaches being the last thing crawling the earth.

_In enough years_, cynical-Emma had once thought, _the love will melt away, our hunger for each other, even the attraction that always takes us back through the same pattern, and all that'll be left will be those moments of blame and crude hate, for having endured this for so long._

They would hate themselves as well as each other, for not knowing how to live without this. Another life that would be happy and alone and peaceful.

That image was hell, to Emma, and it was eternity – their sick, self-repeating cycle.

But that was before the baby happened and, somehow, time was moving again, their enchanted castle breaking from its curse, the hour hands on the clock finally starting to turn.

_Why_ was a complete mystery.

All Emma did know was the stark evidence in front of her – that where Killian had been inconstant in all things except his backslides, he was now sure as a surgeon's hand when it operates on a human heart. Where he had made promises and broken them before – this wasn't the first time she heard him pledge to quit drinking – he proved suddenly, incredibly reliable.

Almost like something stronger than all the bad habits in him had come to the big rescue, stopped him from going any farther down that selfish road of destruction.

It amused Emma to think that was the case.

To imagine a battlefield _inside_ Killian, behind the blue veil of his old eyes, and all the good she had known and loved him for even as it lay sleeping, waking up and suddenly pulling his head out of the water to stop him from drowning.

_Why you doing this to yourself, my mate?_

(Killian's inner goodness would sound slightly Irish, would sound much like himself, like Emma's voice of cynicism did)

_What you have with her is special. Well, it's crap and disaster for the most part, really, but it's a shot at something better than what most people settle for in life._

_So take it._

_Take what's_ real. _All the other things you hold on to, that black pit of pride and anger, will just suck you into a void where the fools meet in the afterlife, and only talk about themselves, as they did in this one._

Of course, Emma wasn't _immediately_ convinced by the sudden turn in Killian's behavior – or was clever enough to pretend she wasn't, so she wouldn't be called an idiot if it crashed.

"You know I'll want to keep working, right?" She told him, in the first week that he moved in with her, at the start of her second trimester.

Killian shrugged like this was completely sound.

"You should. You're the one with a career, love, not me. If you were to stop working, I don't know how we'd go about feeding the little fella. I mean, maybe I will start job-hunting at some point, when the kid's gotten old enough for school. Not like he's going to go to college on one set of wages alone, no offense."

Emma peered at him suspiciously. In truth, his attitude wasn't tame, but so quiet she couldn't help but be cautious around him all the time. Like he knew something she didn't – something he was waiting for her to peacefully come to terms with. Like he was years ahead into the future, and he accepted her mistrust as the logical consequence of his past behavior – patiently waiting for it to wear out, for her to trust him.

For him to _earn_ it.

Really.

Emma wouldn't have been more shocked if Killian had been a toad who before her eyes turned into a prince.

Now, with the security of hindsight, Emma finds these are pleasant memories – yes, even the veil of doubt hanging between them, sometimes, and Killian only ever answering her prudence with steady love and respect.

The passion, which was what had seemed to keep them coming back to each other and reentering that fatal loop for all these years, hadn't come to a stop –

That would have at least made sense.

If Killian had been with Emma strictly maternal, taking care of her through each step of the pregnancy and dutifully succumbing to every whim, driving around town to get her enchiladas when she woke up with a late-night craving, bearing with her unsettling mood swings, and actually documenting himself on this whole raising-children business – at least, she might have made sense of it, might have thought he simply couldn't love a woman right but might love a child.

Emma actually came home from work, one day – she only had to switch to part time in her third trimester – and found Killian sitting on her living room couch, silent as a picture, focused on a book which looked large enough, split open on the coffee table (he must have gone through at least a hundred pages). Leaning over his shoulder, Emma caught the words – 'toddler', 'fatherhood', and 'support'. The chapter was entitled: "A dad's guide to breastfeeding".

It was the first time she saw him reading a book – reading _anything_, actually.

"Oh, hey, Em," he said when he became aware of her presence – not starting, or looking ashamed, like he'd been caught doing something embarrassing. "Didn't hear you get in. How did work go?"

How the banality of those questions would get Emma frowning, like an idiot sitting in front of a mathematical problem far above their paygrade.

But if Killian was undeniably _different_, he wasn't so utterly transformed that she could try to understand it, either.

It might have been an answer to think Killian couldn't love her until he fell in love with their child, but overlooking the seriousness of his efforts in all that was pregnancy related, Killian was very much the same man as he had been, when things were good between them.

A nice enough reminder that things _had_ been good, and could be –

Rediscovering the familiar taste of that slice of pie (the pie of happiness metaphor was wearing thin rather fast, but bear with her a while) made Emma feel hopeful. Like they weren't completely starting from scratch.

Like maybe that had been meant to last forever as well as the bad parts –

Like forever was actually something for them to choose and design.

At night – and at least once or twice during daytime – Killian proved as fierce and eager a lover as she knew him to be, reassuring her that his body hadn't just been taken over by (_who knows?_) an extraterrestrial being interested in learning about the steps of human reproduction.

It's only he was devoted now on every level – could make it look like giving her a foot massage was as important to him as making hungry love to her when she craved it.

Cautious on the outside still, Emma allowed herself to be won over. Agreed that Killian should move in if he wanted to, to be more available to her (his words, not hers), and let him harmlessly pamper her and stroke her belly as many times as he cared to, however much it felt like he might at any time wake up from this delusion and shout out in disgust, "Look how _cute_ we are!" before disappearing out the door and restoring the old world order.

"You realize you're going to have to take care of him," Emma said at some point. Could not help herself from feeling like this wasn't something he fully realized.

She and Killian were lying in bed, around half past ten – getting Killian to bed as early as that made the Top Ten of incredible things the pregnancy had drawn out of him.

Her lover answered with a patient sigh. Careful to meet her eyes, to let her know he wasn't hiding. "Oh, is _that_ how parenting works? I was under the impression the kid took care of us, like a trained monkey of sorts."

"Come on," she admonished him softly.

"Of course," he brushed his knuckles over her cheek (she'd always been fond of him doing that), "I'll take care of him."

"I mean – it's a twenty-four-hour job."

"And my first job." He shrugged. "How exciting. Don't worry, love. I've done the reading, got myself so prepared for it I actually _can't wait_ to get started." Staring straight into her stomach, squinting in mock seriousness. "Bring it on, baby. I'm ready for bottle-feeding and diaper-changing and whatever you got in store for me."

"Killian –"

"What?" Looking up at her, amused – and just a little devious. "You don't believe me."

"It's not that."

"Well, I'll prove my worth to you in time." Sounding serious though shockingly unresentful. "I'm actually eager for that, too."

And so was Emma.

In fact, Killian took his full-time job of being a father so seriously, she sometimes thought he was setting national records.

That he'd take care of the baby while she was at work was one thing. Another was he never complained. Though he was exhausted – it was all too easy to guess, given in their first few years of parenting, he developed a habit of falling asleep in the middle of any random activity, be it while they were cuddling to a low-budget film on TV or eating a lukewarm takeaway dinner straight from the carton boxes. Just once, he actually nodded off while Emma was sitting naked on top of him.

But Killian never once described his days as "exhausting".

He was thorough in his task of filling her in about the baby, sharing all the details she imagined _he'd_ want to know if he were the one having a career.

Through Killian's mesmerized descriptions, Emma experienced everything, from her son's first words – "ooze", which Emma tried to argue didn't count, because she was sure baby-Jamie hadn't actually been trying to refer to the word he'd accidently used, followed by "food", a more serious contestant if you'd ask her, but Killian had already started filling the baby books, and "ooze" was the winner.

But it wasn't just that Killian filled their son's life with all the attention he could ever hope for while she was away.

It wasn't even how, when the baby's cries tore open the wonderfully restful fabric of night, Killian would actually press a firm hand on Emma's shoulders when she tried getting up and say, "I'll get it, love. You're getting up early tomorrow. If Jamie's up all night, he'll get some sleep during the day, and I'll do the same."

The bottles he fed him were all strictly maternal milk – Killian was vehement about those baby powders you could buy in stores: "Packed with sugar, the kid'll be obese before he can walk."

What _really_ astonished Emma was the complete lack of resent in everything he did.

Not once was there bitterness in his voice when he asked her about her day.

Not once did his eyes betray envy, nor did he lose control for a quick second and shout he wished he were anywhere but here, playing house with her – out drinking with chums, or away at sea.

What's more, Emma didn't actually think Killian held it in.

Rather, _this_ was what he genuinely wanted to do. Loving her, and taking care of this baby. Of course. He couldn't do it half so well or graciously if that weren't the case.

Now, of course, Emma ought to have gotten used to it, but it's still a mystery she likes to ponder on, sometimes, when her head hits the pillow.

Jamie's five, and he's been demanding to be sent to nursery school. Though Emma won't actually see him less than for the past five years, she gets that same tightening in the chest as Killian does, just watching the awed shine in his eyes that's a blend of unconditional love and fascination at the passing of time.

Emma teases him about this later that night, when they're getting undressed. "So. Excited about getting your life back, mister?"

"Extraordinarily _not_."

The sulking in his voice gets a full-blown laugh out of her.

"Should be criminal for children to grow up before their parents have had the time to make their peace with it."

"Well," Emma glides gracefully out of her suit – a black tailored skirt and jacket that Killian calls 'her serious sexy outfits'. "There are other things to do."

"Of course. Lesser things," he's playing a little, now.

It might be because Emma's standing practically naked in front of him. "Before Jamie was born, you were talking about getting a job."

"I suppose I'll have to. Be no good to sit around the house all day and drive myself crazy."

"And isn't there actually anything you _want_ to do?"

He rises an eyebrow. Up to the challenge, but very much earnest. "As a matter of fact, Emma Swan, I've been thinking I want to marry you."

Surprise steals in even though it shouldn't, and for a few seconds, there's no breath in her mouth for words, even for laughter.

"Ha." Killian sounds triumphant.

It's not unlike him to knock her off her feet like this, to make it clear to her that however many years you spend with someone, you can't rob them of their ability to surprise you –

She should have learnt this years ago.

When they were both sitting at her kitchen table in awkward silence, and she said she was going to get an abortion, and Killian said, _No_.

"I've taken your breath away already, darling, and I haven't even laid a finger on you yet."

"Are you –"

"Serious?" He prompts, before admonishing her gently. "Need you ask?"

"This is a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing, right?"

But she knows it isn't, just from the way his eyes gleam with satisfaction and knowledge – he _likes_ to be ahead of her. Emma reckons, after all those years of her watching him go round and round in circles, to break the habit and _take her breath away_ every once in a while is his personal victory.

"I don't know."

Killian kneels and reaches for something beneath the mattress – by that time, Emma knows _what_ he's looking for before he actually produces the elegant blue box that could fit in her palm. Though he's already on one knee and it would be all too easy to do this the traditional way, Killian merely tosses the box at her and smiles when she catches it.

After everything they've been through, they both grew to avoid clichés as a rule.

"Does that look spur-of-the moment to you?"

Emma's eyes skim over the box before she can help it – the urge to open it is strong, pressing her heartbeat into a quick flutter, but she resists.

Thinks it matters, even now, to save appearances – to look casual, even though she certainly isn't fooling Killian and, what's more, she doesn't want to.

"How long have you been storing this under the bed?"

"Does it matter?"

She guesses not.

Refusing to blush, Emma allows her fingers to run over the small velvety surface of the box, teasing herself, but teasing Killian right along, whose eyes are hooked on her every movement, following the strokes over fingers with bewitched attention.

There is no surprise when Emma opens the box. Or rather, there is no surprise at _being_ surprised – Emma knows it isn't going to be a conventional wedding ring with a lone diamond, and not just because of the small war they've long waged against clichés.

But because their love is such a storm of messy incomprehension to any lookers-on, it would feel wrong to try and put any universal symbol on it.

What Emma also knows instinctively is that the ring is going to be _right, _even if she herself doesn't know what right will look like until she sees it.

The ring is silver, naturally, he knows it's her favorite, but the intricate design of gems enmeshed in thorn-like patterns is less easy, more impressive, as is the color of the main rock, whose role it is to stand apart, deliberately embeautied by every carefully planned detail of the ring.

Blue.

Not blue as the sea or sky or anything other that would automatically suggest eternity.

Blue as the older-than-seventeen eyes that peered at her from a lone corner, at Regina's party, what feels like another life ago – a life Emma would have dreamed of within a dream.

And immediately, Emma realizes the meaning of Killian's gesture.

That he isn't asking her to be his, as is conventionally expected, but that he's giving himself _to_ her – willfully yielding the answer to the enigma she's never stopped seeing in him, breaking free from that brittle layer of secrecy that coats him like a second skin.

"It wasn't the baby," he says, knows exactly where she's at in her head. "When I decided I was going to change. I hadn't the least idea of how much I was going to love the little guy or what a wonderful ride it'd wind up being."

Emma senses what's coming – almost thinks she could say it for him, but stays silent in the end.

She's waited long enough to hear this.

"It was you."

Yes.

When the words are out, Emma realizes she knows this. Has maybe always known, somewhere between two layers of consciousness.

"At that time, the baby wasn't Jamie – he wasn't anything to me but the realization that I could build something concrete with _you_. And I loved him for it, before I knew how to love him at all."

Killian falls silent, and Emma doesn't want him to say any more.

It's enough.

After a long moment of staring into her boyfriend's eyes, Emma merely puts on the ring –unlike the question, the answer isn't aiming to look like a surprising development.

This is a little strange, she imagines – she, standing nearly naked and Killian kneeling at the opposite end of the bed. But it's got a special quality of _honest_.

All Killian adds is, "Do you wish I'd done anything different?"

"No," even as she answers, Emma knows he didn't mean the proposal – and oddly enough, becomes aware that among the sorrows and miseries they've endured over the years, there's nothing she wishes back.

Now that it's behind them, Emma feels no bitterness for these years when it felt like she was being courted by disaster – and courting back.

And when she thinks of the future – another fifteen years, or even fifty years from now – maybe as a just and due retribution, Emma Swan sees stars.

…

**End Notes**: Please let me know your thoughts. I've enjoyed writing this so much, I can't wait for your feedback, and remember I'm taking requests if you have stories in mind for this amazing couple.


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